Scotland’s Jesus: The Only Officially Non-racist Comedian

by Frankie Boyle

  A florist even had to take down five tissue-paper rings as they breached Olympic trademark laws. Excessive? I’d rather not say as I’m currently being threatened with action for putting down my coffee mug a few times without a coaster.

  There surely needs to be a handicap system to stop the same teams always topping the tables. I’d suggest competitors have to do events wearing their country’s previous Olympics medal haul. Then Team GB could be spurred across the line by what look like half a dozen glistening golden armadillos or, depending on the event, shimmering dead swimmers. Also, I don’t see why the last day of the Olympics shouldn’t be all the gold medallists playing dodgeball till we have an ultimate champion.

  Seventy-six per cent of people say the Paralympics lifted the nation’s mood. It made me more depressed. I can’t throw a discus and I’ve got arms. David Cameron said the Olympics and Paralympics have had as much impact upon the national psyche as England’s World Cup victory in 1966. I think they’ve had even more impact, as Team GB and ParalympicsGB won without cheating. The big question is how on earth is Rio going to follow London 2012? My guess is by building some stadiums and holding some sporting events inside them.

  Olympic Chairman Lord Moynihan says more state-school kids need to get into competitive sports. He’s right. We were always encouraged to do cross-country running in our school. Especially when we found out that the priest’s sandals had such poor off-road traction. So many memories: ‘You’ve left your bag at home? Well, you’ll have to do the lesson in your vest and pants then.’ It didn’t matter whether it was maths, English or history. My school was very sporty. One class friend even managed the 100 metres in under eight seconds. I always wonder if he’d been taught more academic stuff whether he might have got a job and not leapt off the top of the BT Tower.

  The Olympics created a new batch of sporting celebrities. Jessica Ennis was given the keys to Sheffield, although she’ll have to wait until they find them. They haven’t bothered locking it for years in the hope that someone might steal it. I’m also a big fan of Mo Farah and the Mobot. As you can do it, then dip your torso in a bin-full of soapy water, before running down the street at the head of a trail of giant bubbles.

  And what about Splash!, Tom Daley’s ITV show? It’s hardly the most exciting format they could have got from the Olympics, is it? I’m sure there’d be way more viewers for a celebrity version of Munich 1972. You probably expect me to be down on Splash! but I reckon most ITV shows would be improved if contestants had to jump off a ten-metre board. Though they have messed up a perfectly good format by including a pool. Tom Daley – bless him! – every time I see him near the edge of the pool I just want to put armbands on him.

  Tom Daley’s an ideal trainer as he feels no fear, being just a composite of molecules assembled by the telepathic will of the nation’s lonely aging homosexuals. Tom doesn’t let anyone sponsor him. Part of his plan is to use his deals to help nurture athletes in poorer countries. That’s why he went with Nestlé, as their aggressive promotion of powdered baby milk helps ensure only the hardiest of sub-Saharan tots survive. Still, maybe Tom needs to make as much money as he can while he’s got the chance, or in years to come he’ll be on street corners offering to hurl himself into a paddling pool for loose change.

  The title brought to mind that film where Daryl Hannah’s a mermaid. For obvious reasons I could never get my head round the mechanics of her lovemaking. I suspect the lights were out and her partner was actually just tossed off by a lobster that owed her a favour. In fairness, Daley’s show is just a bit of fun and gives ITV viewers something to do instead of banging on the side of prison vans outside courts trying high-profile cases.

  Sir Paul McCartney blasted Stuart Pearce as an ‘idiot’ for leaving David Beckham out of the final Team GB football squad. Imagine being lectured on team selection by a man who chose Ringo Starr to be in The Beatles and mahogany as a hair colour. I’m surprised Pearce didn’t point out who the real idiot was when it came to choosing the right guy: Mark Chapman.

  Say what you like about Beckham, but he really has lived the dream – the weird dream in which you’ve got a voice like a castrated parrot and you’re married to a skeleton. Beckham was the highest-paid footballer in Major League Soccer’s history. Mind you, the second-highest-paid player was paid in food stamps. Beckham finished his career in Paris. He even learnt some of the language, but when he tried asking for soixante-neuf in Paris’s red-light district he just ended up with five dozen eggs. Victoria didn’t want to move to China as she’d probably have ended up in a jar as a treatment for trapped wind.

  Oscar Pistorius and his girlfriend were called the South African Posh and Becks. David, if you’re reading this then you know what you have to do next. Nobody who reads about the Oscar Pistorius case does so for a good reason. If you’re telling yourself that you follow it because you’re interested in how the media respond to it or because of what it says about celebrity you’re even worse than the rest of us ghouls. Just be honest about your unsavoury fascination and join us with your popcorn in Modern Hell.

  Pistorius was apparently annoyed about having to give up his guns. You can understand his worry. Can you imagine being in a restaurant, going to the toilet and seeing the ‘engaged’ sign . . . but not being able to shoot the person inside? He held his own personal memorial service for Reeva Steenkamp. Presumably his way of softening the blow before he asked her family if he could have her legs.

  Pistorius slept with a baseball bat and a cricket bat, which seems crazy when he’s got two false legs. She must have realised he was armed as they’re the only limbs he’s got. He says he wasn’t trying to kill an intruder, just make them eligible for the next Paralympics. The tragedy is that if he had no arms, this would never have happened.

  All kinds of records could be set simply by letting him fire the starting pistol at the women’s 100 metres. Poor Reeva Steenkamp. Her last moments must’ve been like a scene from The Terminator. Still, a black woman in South Africa could get killed by a disembodied head and not make the papers. Pistorius said when he heard a noise in the bathroom he felt incredibly vulnerable and feared that it was a burglar coming to steal his huge arsenal of guns, rifles and various other weapons. The police found steroids in his house; he must have been on something if he was injecting them into his metal legs.

  It seems in South Africa police trying to work out if someone is a murderer use the ‘it takes one to know one’ policy. In a dramatic turn of events Detective Hilton Botha was dropped from the case as he himself has been charged with seven attempted murders. You know what they say. It takes a thief to catch a thief. What they don’t say is that it takes a mass murderer to catch a murderer. Although that’s not a bad idea for a new BBC Four drama. Peter Sutcliffe time-travels back to Victorian London to find out who Jack the Ripper is. I’d watch it! The detective has been accused of bungling the investigation. Drugs he claimed were steroids turned out to be a herbal remedy. And the grisly cache of severed limbs he unearthed turned out to be Pistorius’s leg drawer.

  The murder rate is so high in South Africa that it’s not uncommon for at least eight out of the twelve jurors to be convicted murderers. And for the judge to call a halt in proceedings so he can go out and kill. Pistorius has a good chance of getting off because this is his first murder. If he doesn’t, his next race will be to try to bagsy the bottom bunk in his prison cell.

  • • •

  In 2013 we said farewell to Sir Alex Ferguson. The hairdryer. So-called as he’d often give players a terrible shock by jumping in the post-match bath. You mustn’t underestimate Ferguson’s skill – to retain the attention of men so highly sexed they don’t even draw the line at relatives. The thing is, football is a hobby for most people so what’s he going to take up when he retires? A regional manager’s position at the Prudential?

  David Moyes seems the perfect replacement – he looks like Sir Alex but from a parallel universe where football clubs are managed by six-foot fro
gs. Ferguson invented the phrase ‘squeaky-bum time’. There’s been a variety of responses from Man Utd fans, some exclaiming 什么他妈的?!, some leaving offerings of rice at improvised shines, while others simply stared wistfully at the double shadows cast by their binary suns.

  Fergie’s seventy-one. Though in Scottish years that makes him 120. When he took the job the ground was called New Trafford. He’s getting on a bit – he’d reached that age where he’d enter the Champions League and then forget what he’d gone in there for. It’s quite difficult to monitor the health of a man who always looks like his liver is using his nose to signal for help.

  Ferguson was at Man Utd for so long he’s being taught about modern society by the Ohio kidnapping victims. Must be quite strange to look at the world after spending most of your life with football players, to walk blinking on to a high street full of women who aren’t crying or running away. The first time he sees a woman without a fake tan he’ll probably ask how her leukaemia treatment is going.

  When Wayne Rooney said he wanted to retire they just replied, ‘The one you’ve got hanging in the backyard is fine.’ In the end he was persuaded to stay at Man Utd. Then again, Wayne could be persuaded that if he unscrewed his belly button his arse would fall off.

  Will Man Utd ever get rid of him? It wouldn’t take too much to lure him to another club. Probably just the manager patting his knees and going, ‘C’mon, boy!’ He could go abroad, although I’m not sure he’d cope with the pressure of learning a first language. He’s still impressive with the ball. Especially when you consider he’s suppressing the urge to bite it and shake it about till it goes flat. A transfer wouldn’t be easy for him to cope with as he’s only recently come to terms with Sir Alex trying to explain to him in 2010 that he wasn’t his real dad. Wayne’s not happy about having to play second fiddle to someone Man Utd have only just bought. Now he knows how Coleen’s felt over the years.

  The Rooneys have bought a couple of racehorses. They agreed on horses, although initially Wayne was keen to buy a hare, as he’d noticed their repeated success at greyhound stadiums. Coleen’s told Wayne he should race their horses next year. But he reckons that’s not fair as they’ve got loads more legs than him. I’d rather see him stick to riding about on his tricycle. The thought of him on horseback is a terrifying portent of the rise of the planet of the apes.

  Wayne’s been hogging the changing-room mirrors to admire his hair transplant. For the mirror and reflective glass community this is like their 9/11. Still, it’s progress. Only six months ago they had to turn it round when he entered so he didn’t lash out at ‘Bad Wayne who won’t stop copying’.

  Coleen’s had another kid although the couple have had trouble conceiving. My sources tell me it’s because Wayne had to break his habit of always withdrawing and ejaculating into a roaring fire in order to destroy DNA evidence.

  The Manchester derby was watched by 10 per cent of the global population! Children as far away as Indonesia and El Salvador watched these two great teams play, to make sure they get the stitching on the logos just right. Local derbies always cause resentment, mainly because it’s hard for fans to find a post-match prostitute they don’t recognise from the school run. A fan in Nairobi was stabbed to death in an argument over the match, presumably by someone who lived on the Salford side of Mount Kenya.

  Liverpool player Luis Suárez got a ten-match ban for biting Branislav Ivanovic. I’m using this incident to teach my daughter correct behaviour, which is to always bite an approaching Chelsea player. Being lectured on morals while playing the Chelsea team must be like being told off for farting at a sewage farm.

  In fairness to Suárez, having started off with racism it was always going to be tough to find something suitably unpleasant to do next. In many ways biting is his difficult second album. I think the fact that he’s being followed by Mike Tyson on Twitter will do him good. He may keep biting but he won’t call anyone a n**** again. Suárez was criticised for his behaviour by Graeme Souness. I’d be interested to know how many players would rather have been bitten on the arm by Suárez than booted in the nuts by Souness.

  Ivanovic is known for his versatility, going well with chips as well as a light salad. He reacted as any Chelsea player would, by instinctively shouting, ‘Not where my wife will see!’ Of course, biting is the standard method of tackling in paraplegic football.

  It’s sad we haven’t managed to kick racism out of football. Perhaps we should just try to move it over to table tennis. Still, I don’t think we’ll go back to the days when football hooliganism was the ‘English disease’. It’s lost way too much ground to chlamydia.

  Paolo Di Canio insisted he isn’t a fascist. At least, I think that was the gist of the five-hour speech he gave from his hotel balcony. Apparently, the Sunderland board is thinking of laying down the law to Di Canio. Either renounce your political beliefs or get us a couple of wins against Newcastle. Pull that off on a regular basis and Sunderland would have gladly been run by Fred and Rose West. I’m joking. of course. No one can play at Premier League level with a lumpy pitch.

  Di Canio finally denied being a fascist after three days of refusing to talk about his political beliefs. Well, if you’d held the fascist belief that white people are superior then three days in Sunderland should certainly cure you. Although it’s hard to look at people in Sunderland without considering that some form of eugenics might not have been a bad idea. It would have been terrible if a fascist had taken over a Premier League football club as they all prefer to keep their ingrained racism on a far more casual level.

  Personally, I think that in Roy Hodgson the FA have made a great appointment. Because I’m Scottish. If they hadn’t managed to land Hodgson, the FA were going to go for a boiler-suit stuffed full of shredded newspaper with a balloon for a head. Roy struggles to get his tongue round his Rs and I worry it’ll impact on team selection. Good news for Walcott, Walker and Welbeck. But Wob Gween’s definitely out. If he leaves Rooney on the bench the stadium’s likely to turn into that scene from Life of Brian. Bwing on . . . you get the idea.

  With the next World Cup England just need to focus on the positives that can be achieved. A twenty-three-man squad – that’s 4,600 duty-free fags, for starters. How do you make England hungrier for the opponent’s goal? Surely rubbing an old pair of knickers on the posts would be a start.

  Scotland’s chances in the World Cup might be slim but at least we won the Homeless World Cup! A great performance when you consider that in the final they had a man sent off for fighting with himself and one of their players was a dog. Of course, England will be formidable opposition next year once Gazza’s eligible, but who would deny these guys their moment of glory? Only their estranged families.

  Gazza’s out of rehab and he’s vowed never to drink again. People say some crazy things when they’re pissed, although, to be fair, he does look a lot steadier on his knees. Gazza’s flown back, and it’s said that the US air marshal who was sitting beside him was worried al-Qaeda might try to bring the plane down by sparking up a Zippo when Gazza burped. The real tragedy of Gazza’s situation is why did no one see it coming? Where were the signs? Gazza says he’s started having Botox injections. That explains why his forehead’s no longer conveying emotion, though not why his eyes and his voice aren’t.

  It’s not fair to say that he’s fallen off the wagon. It’s more accurate to say that the wagon has been fitted with a fighter plane-style ejector seat and Gazza’s pulled the red lever. He wants to be on the next series of I’m a Celebrity. When asked about being covered in creepy-crawlies he said he was just praying they would have all gone by then.

  My favourite moment was when he confessed he gave a driving examiner £25 to pass his test. Witnesses say it was actually a Snickers wrapper, and he gave it to a butcher who just spun him round a few times and pushed him out of the shop. It seems the instructor had already been won over by Gazza, as when they’d run out of petrol he’d kindly got the car going again by pissin
g in the petrol tank.

  Such a sad decline. Newcastle United, Spurs, Lazio, Rangers . . . now he’s only fit for the Scottish First Division. His chances of drying out are currently so low he’s been made honorary Mayor of Atlantis.

  • • •

  A tabloid newspaper investigation last year revealed that a sizeable number of Premier League footballers were taking cocaine. I’d love to see Wayne Rooney doing coke. After a few snorts I imagine the inside of his head would look like the world’s bleakest snow globe. I’m against drugs in sport. We can’t let children see drug users being athletic; they might realise their parents aren’t too wasted to take them to the park.

  Frankie Dettori’s failed a drugs test for cocaine. The thought of an Italian talking on cocaine is terrifying. He was tested after he did a circuit around a racecourse with a horse on his back. As long as the horse is clean what does it matter what drugs he’s on? His job is basically being small, sitting and hanging on. The only substance jockeys should be banned from using is superglue. Anyway, the Grand National is actually part of a conspiracy to produce snuff movies for the centaurs who own our banking system.

  Footballers are sharing intimate photos of girls they’ve slept with. Though in Ched Evans’s pics it’s hard to tell whether the girl is having sex or planking. These sportsmen have to use BlackBerrys, partly because of the Messenger service and partly because the iPhone’s voice control means every time they talk about an arsehole they’ve just seen it rings Joey Barton. The sex ring was described as ‘sleazy’ – which is disappointing. I like my sex rings to be wholesome and homespun. People liken football to sex but sex is never that good – who’s ever had a miserable time in a nightclub only to bang a couple in, in quick succession, on the way out of the door?